Page 42 of Sorry, We're Closed

“I pieced it together over time, with your willingness to serve me delicious coffee practically daily, and I’ve never seen you this happy.”

Marcus holds his hand between my shoulder blades as I talk, a smile plastering my face as I am finally able to tell Marcus about my—thisincredible man.

“His name is Sawyer Sombre, he's the barista and we've been seeing each other when we can, but I—”

The woman stumbles into our chairs and finally earns the mouthful of sand which was coming for her. Marcus offers a hand to the lady but the same man with an unbuttoned shirt and thick gel coating his hair, bats Marcus’ hand away and helps her up.

“Don't mind her, she’s pissed and we're on our way back to hers anyways, am I right lads?”

Marcus raises his eyebrows to them as the man winks, soon realising that his disgusting joke has been told to the wrong crowd. We swivel our chairs back around and I continue sipping, the light and airy feeling swirling around in my head becoming stronger as I reach the bottom of the glass. I glance over my shoulder to the man carrying the woman, the woman feeling oddly familiar. Surely that isn't her?

Nineteen

Sawyer

I have an empty house and an empty fridge for the evening. Before she left earlier this evening, Mother stumbled around the house, smearing a ruby red lipstick over her flaking lips and squeezing herself into a dress I had seen her wear in her college photos. A tight-fitting black dress with white spots all over, the seam strangling her thighs as she teased her rusty locks into a ponytail tight enough to rip every follicle from her scalp if the tail was pulled at any point.

I opened the cupboards, searching for my hidden stash of Gwen's baked buns of goodness as it seemed that was my only dinner option, but the cupboard was abruptly slammed on my fingers as Mother stood there, holding her ponytail over her shoulder.

“Zip it up!” she demanded, and I tugged on the dated zip, not a word escaping my lips on how this dress had no chance of fitting anymore.

I was able to pull it enough until it met the bottom of her shoulder blades, and that was enough time spent with her son today as she huffed.

“I didn't ask you to move the fucking moon.”

She stormed out of the kitchen as I shoved my paper bags filled with sweet treats into my pockets and retreated to my room for the evening.

After hearing the front door slam hard enough to quake the walls, and the lack of goodbyes with her departure, I exhale every anxiety that had built up from her looming presence. Even if she has no clue, and even with the feeling that I could visit cloud nine when I'm around him, I struggle to shake the guilt and dread that gnaws in my chest at the fear of her ever finding out about Avory. That's the power that people can have over you –some own the keys to set you free from whatever prison you have been banished to, yet your captor has guilt shackled around your ankles and wrists, still.

Those shackles have been tightening against my skin for years, and this was the first time that they could possibly graze the bone. The grip they have wrapped around me since Avory first stepped foot in the café is unbearable, but somehow, I don't really care. I may have these steel cuffs burying themselves into me now, but he comes along and kisses every part better, making it seem okay. He may as well brush his lips against every bruise I've ever felt in any form, because I think he'd help me forgive, forget, and move on. Move on with him, maybe?

A vibration brings my mind back to my bedroom, specifically my bed and thick duvet which I snuggled myself down in with my towering pile of The Sweet Bakery paper bags. Gwen and I can never comprehend how I manage to keep such a delicate, dainty frame with how I shovel her cinnamon buns in my mouth like it's the last meal I asked for on death row. I probably would ask for her cinnamon buns, if I'm completely honest with myself. Actually, if I somehow ended up in prison, Gwen would be there with me for sure.

I finish my mouthful as my partner in crime’s name beams on my phone.

Gwen:I WISH YOU WERE HERE, HUN! I’m sure you know who's performing tonight ;)

My mind has already been playing performances from Bright Lights on repeat, specifically focusing on their gorgeous guitarist, since he had already told me the night before. Avory was vacant from the café today with all the rehearsing they had to do, but he is definitely present in my mind. A tender ache starts to fill my chest, lingering around my lungs and heart. I miss Avory.

A blurry picture box pops up as the grey ring spins around, accurately representing how my mind feels about everything going on recently. More photos are sent as they load in one by one: the first image is of stage lights beaming towards the camera as the Bright Lights flag sways proudly at the back. The handsome and rugged Marcus stands front and centre, his fist in the air and the other wrapped tight around the microphone, a pose which strongly resembles the most powerful and talented Freddie Mercury. His hair is slicked back, his tidy stubble lining his chiselled jaw and a thin ring of black outlines his eyes.

I find myself intrigued by Marcus. It seems, from the endless stories that Avory has told me, that he represents the exact thing I have never experienced in my years growing up. It really starts to piece together how we are so different in so many ways. But then why does everything feel like it fits?

Another photo delivers itself, and I am convinced that my breathing stops for a moment. My eyes are glued to the screen, because I am never not aware of a version of Avory Bright which exists in leather trousers. The matte fabric clutches toeverypart of him, defining parts of him which he has no reason to ever feel embarrassed about, if someone like Avory even feels embarrassment. A cropped shirt hangs from his shoulders, displaying not only the band's name, but these faint yet carved muscles with two deep curves leading into those goddamn trousers. He faces the stage floor, his hair covering all of his features as he eyes up his mint guitar. His fingers pinch the strings while the other holds his pick, and playing guitar just seems effortless to him.

Memories of the first time he showed me that exact guitar in his studio, my valiant attempt at my first chord, which I'm sure he silently found highly entertaining, flood my mind. It seems like that is a consistent theme with us. Whatever Avory can do naturally and instinctively; I must take ten times as long to do.

I’m not aware of how long I have been staring at this photo, but long enough for a situation to form in my thin, cotton shorts. I shoot a text back to Gwen.

Sawyer:Here lies the body of one Sawyer Sombre. He has officially killed me.

Gwen:At least you can admit it now ;)

I roll my eyes at Gwen's comment as I shut off my phone, not realising how much light the screen provided as my room falls dark. Only the burnt glow of streetlamps reflects into my room, bouncing off the four walls. I couldn't be happier that Gwen is rooting for my every move with this completely out of my league man, but I still hear this inner voice shrieking that something is going to change this. Something will come along and end this all because this—he, just seems too good to be true for someone like me.

The more I think about him and about whatever we are, the more I test the limits of these shorts, yet I don't want to deal with it. If I deal with my problem, with Avory plaguing my mind, that is fully admitting that I have fallen for him, that I crave him, that I am turned on by him. These are emotions which I haven't tapped into on my own for too long of a time now, and if I don't submit to these emotions, then eventually losing him won't hurt as much. I roll onto my side, shuffling until the tension between my legs eases. My eyes roll as my eyelids drift over.

Repeated vibrations shock me awake. I wipe the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand,was I drooling in my sleep? I shudder off the thought, hoping I can forget ever knowing I do that, as my screen lights up. My eyes take a second to adjust from a tense squint to a wide stretch of my eyelids. Sliding my glasses back on, I unlock my phone to see multiple message notifications.

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